goat cookies

In which I somehow find myself with Hank in Niles, Michigan, caring for Louie the dog, Ted the cat, and Silver Bullet, Corky, and Buster Brown the goats. Hank does a lot of pet-sitting for friends and family, particularly his sister's dog Latka, who is maybe the best dog ever. Since we both live in rather crummy and small places, our visits have taken place in various spots like his sister's in Delmar (California). It was actually my idea to get a pet-sit in some nice Michigan spot, so here we are, for two and a half weeks. The house is huge and beautifully appointed, unlike Hank's cruddy little Santa Monica apartment or my perch at Vern's run-down casita. This is simply room after room, airy and nicely decorated. The kitchen is a dream, since I live without a stove and generally cook on various small appliances. There is an espresso maker. There is a dishwasher. Tho I wont be baking, there's a Kitchenaid mixer. Three big TVs in cozy spots. A hot tub. (Three of the places that Hank and I have stayed together have had hot tubs, and I'm hooked.)

Louie the dog is a 105 pound Black Lab, full of doggie love. I cannot stress enough what a dog guy Hank is, tho he hasn't had one of his own for a while. He came in this morning with his back covered in leaves and grass, because he had been rolling on the ground with Louie. This is a very serious love affair. Ted the cat is a bit more aloof than I'd like, but when he wants a scratch or a meal, he comes to me. 

I have taken on the care of Corky, Silver Bullet, and Buster Brown. Corky is a Nigerian Dwarf, calico-colored with a beard. Silver Bullet is black with a little grey, Buster Brown is (duh) brown, and they are pygmy goats, They are fairly adorable, even with those spooky slit-pupilled eyes. They are mostly shy, tho Buster Brown likes his sides scratched. They are neutered, which Kimetha says makes them less smelly and more docile. For farm animals, they are quite easy and non-stinky; they even poop in little pellets, like rabbits. 

First they get a scoop of goat chow (pellets again), divided among three dishes, one of which is divided in two, that's four compartments of food for three goat mouths. But they just push and shove. Then I put a "flake" of hay (a 2 ft square slice) into the hay hopper, and then it's time for treats. Goat treats are actually plain old animal cookies. They push and shove, then each gently nibbles a cookie from my fingers. They are lovely little beasts. They have a big, sunny enclosure with grass, sticks (they like to nibble the bark), something to climb on, a salt/mineral lick. They've got it pretty good.

now, where was I?

I was clunking around in some Google functions, and look at this old-ass blog I found! I guess I didn't think Blogger was still in business. I started another blog in the interim, with the rather lofty idea of writing and posting reviews not tempered by a publication's commercial needs. (This must have been right after I reviewed a horrible book for Blues Music Magazine and was directed not to say how horrible it was because advertising. Fuck that noise! This is the internet!) I must have been having some energy toward becoming some sort of internet writer or whatever that is...

So, it's just about seven years since I last wrote here. I'm assuming I won't be having anything in the way of a career, Those mid-late 2010s goddess years pick-ups were fun, but too little too late. Trying to figure out now how to live as an older American. Trump. Pandemic, Trump again.

I'm 66 years old and not sure how many acts I have left. Just hoping to stay safe and comfortable and happy. But my feet are still not entirely under me since I came up100% broke in New York City during the pandemic, and had to move to a city I didn't know and live with someone I barely knew in order to keep a roof over my head.

Friends, I've been in Detroit for five years. 

We will talk more about why I still don't/can't drive, mostly because I'm not too sure myself. This is the wrong city for a non-driver, boy howdy. So that's the tragic and difficult part of today. (Well, the "tragic " part is, needless to say, not being able to live in New York any more. The "difficult" part is living in Detroit.)

Multiple heavens full of big-titty girls for my roomie Vern, who offered me this perch in Detroit after not seeing me for about 20 years. Really, we knew each other so little, but had masses of good will and affection. And so, he saved my life. He's a big smart serious helpless warm confused goofball; finally occurred to me recently that he is absolutely on the spectrum, which explains oh so much. Vern is mostly quiet and squirrely and we look after each other gently.

I also found my local bestie two doors down, lucky me! Because we enjoy each other a ton, and having a friend who has a car and knows the lay of the land is pretty important here. 

Sidebar: Detroit is a huge spread-out city that has suffered a huge population loss, so there's a lot of empty space and almost nothing is walkable. I live in a food desert. I can walk to two dollar stores, a pharmacy, and a "party store" (convenience store that's basically a liquor store with snacks). 

"Local bestie" doesn't sound that important, but he is very important to me. Companionship. In Brooklyn, I had neighbors to chat with right in my apartment building, on the elevator, in the lobby. Friends upstairs. The clerks I knew in the stores, the pharmacists. I had a lot of people to talk to face to face. Very different here. We've grown to be great friends, Byron and me, because we started doing things together. It kicked into high gear when he convinced me to start coming to the gym. We go to the gym together now; we shop for groceries and for weed, And with his wife Christine, who is no less dear but much more busy, we do some concerts and other fun stuff in the area. These are my peeps.

Then Byron's best friend from high school and college came to town for their 50th high school reunion, about a year and a half ago, and guess what happened? It turned out that Hank was the male of my species.

I should mention that a couple of years ago, I started taking Trulicity for diabetes, and lost about 30 pounds, then I started going to the gym. This brought me to a size I hadn't been at since I was about 19. This was finally getting off all of the weight I put on when I got sober over 38 years ago, 

But I wasn't used to it yet when I met Hank. I was used to men looking at me and trying to decide if they could get past my weight. The first night I met Hank, it seemed like he was trying really hard to impress me, and I couldn't figure out why. It seemed I had become something of a babe, old-lady variety. 

My boyfriend was built for me: not too tall (five-nine), more stocky than skinny (good), thick upper body (good), unspeakably hairy (really good). (Text from Hank: "I miss ya stroking the mohair.") Classic big-ass Jewish nose, bald head, beautiful smile. 

I feel like this is maybe the first relationship I've had where for the most part, it isn't just his neuroses and my neuroses having a playdate. (See: Peter. Which I did again, stupid me, in the spring of 2018. Went through that whole mess again, and by 2025: no longer speaking, on bad terms.. But there was a good photo:

This is basically the only picture of the two of us, except for the one with Weber on my 40th birthday. Geez. (Weber's dead now, too.) I was still big. He is perpetually skinny. We vowed never to be apart again, but I hadn't expected him to become an asshole again. Fool me twice.)

I'm not sure how much I love any of the pictures with Hank and me because they never seem to look quite exactly like,,, and yet...

The woman behind him is his 97-y.o. mother Dulcie. He does NOT live with her.

Hank and Byron and I went "up north" (that's what you call northern Michigan) last spring - Christine couldn't get off (she's a therapist and tends to work five days a week). It was huge big fun being with those two, saw a lot of great sights, and Hank and I started making out on a bunch overlooking Lake Michigan, after seven months of daily emails.